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The squeak from the intercom was unintelligible, but the moderately scary office manager must have made some kind of sense of it. She stubbed out her cigarette and stood up to direct me to the entrance to the inner sanctum it was her daily charge to guard. She knocked briskly then pulled open the door without giving the occupant the slightest opportunity to collect their thoughts or stop whatever they were doing in private. I stepped inside and closed the door behind me. Almon Methven was a prissy little Goblin, short and rotund to the point where it looked like he could barely touch his fingertips together over his belly. He had watery eyes and ears so attenuated they were barely larger than those of a human. He was fussily-dressed in an expensive tailor-made suit of a fashionable cut and cloth, his wide-collared shirt tie-less and casually open at the neck, although still fastened at the wrists with jewelled cufflinks. His office was large yet sparsely furnished, although the few items of furniture therein were very clearly of the finest quality. Facing me across the deep-pile carpet as I entered was a single desk of inlaid and polished woods, behind which Methven sat almost completely obscuring a high-backed office chair finished in soft grey leather. To my left was set a large square coffee table with a precisely matched and identically positioned davenport on each side. On the walls hung larger prints of, I assumed, some of his most famous clients, or perhaps just his personal favourites. Methven prised himself from his chair and waddled around the desk, extending a podgy hand. "Mister Gask," he said with a professional smile, the kind intended to disarm the irate visitor, "I understand you're making some kind of enquiry. How can I help?" Against my better judgement, I took his hand and shook it. It was clammy and limp. "Thank you for seeing me," I said with equally cool professionalism, "Bad news, I'm afraid. There's been a murder. One of your clients." Methven frowned with an expression of deep concern, then waved me in the direction of the coffee table. "Please take a seat and tell me what's happened." I sat on the indicated couch and placed my hat neatly on the table in front of me. Methven settled himself awkwardly in the sofa opposite. I took a deep breath and put on my finest professional demeanour, doing my best to look poised and attentive. From another pocket in my slightly overused coat, I drew out a little notebook bound in black leather and an especially sharpened pencil in order to take written notes. Regular readers of these memoirs will know that I rarely bother with notes, even in the most intricate of cases. I have a very good memory and I find that the act of jotting down notes distracts from the close observation of the interviewee. So many people tell me more by their reactions to my questions, the body language more eloquent - and often more truthful - than the spoken kind. I decided on the direct approach. Best to get worst out in the open. "The victim is Lady Strowan Westwood," I said sorrowfully, "She died at home, in the early hours of yesterday morning." "Strowan? No!" Methven shrieked, suddenly looking desolate and bursting into tears. He drew a freshly-laundered, if rather effeminate-looking handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his eyes. He did look like a Goblin who would blub at the slightest provocation, although he managed to pull himself together with a rapidity that surprised me. "I can't believe she's dead," he moaned, sniffing into his hankie. Then he added, as if the thought had just ocurred to him, "But who would want to murder an old lady like her?" "That, sir, is exactly the question I'm trying to answer." He stared at me for a moment, then nodded sadly. "I'll do anything I can to help." "Okay. How long have you known Lady Strowan?" I asked in a carefully neutral voice, making a few jottings in my notebook. "All my life, pretty much," he replied, his eyes focussing on the middle-distance, "My father, rest his soul, started this company many years ago and Strowan Westwood was one of his star successes. They were dear old friends. My father used to visit her ladyship frequently, even after she married. He was a regular dinner guest." Methven stopped and sniffed into his handkerchief once more. "Did you know Strowan?" he asked tearfully. "I met her once, two days ago," I replied, "She engaged me on another matter and entertained me over dinner." "Served by old Tibbermore, no doubt," he said sadly, "She could be utterly charming if she wanted to be, but there was always that sense of inner steel." I had to agree with that assessment. "So, your father introduced you to Lady Strowan?" I pressed. "Yes. When I joined Dad in the business, I would sometimes accompany him to her dinner parties and soirees. When he became ill, somehow I started occupying his slot at the dining table. It was just part of the arrangement." "The arrangement?" I parroted, "What's that?" Methven snorted. "We have had a long-standing business understanding with Lady Strowan," he explained, "If she ever wanted to get back into the acting profession, then we promised to make it possible for her. It was a solemn commitment my father made a long time ago, and I'd have to respect it, too." "And did she want to return to the stage?" I asked, looking up and waggling my pencil. "Never showed any sign of it," he said, shaking his head, "She didn't ever mention it. She seemed to have been happily retired." I nodded thoughtfully, my eyes returning to the scribbling on the page in front of me. "When did you last see her Ladyship?" "Three, no four weeks ago," he said, "She doesn't entertain much, these days." "So I heard. So, apart from you, who came to dinner?" "Her granddaughter Mayfield," he answered promptly, "Sometimes I would see her there. And of course Cutmal Lundie was often in attendance." I frowned and looked up sharply, forgetting to make a note in my book. "Cutmal Lundie?" I asked, "Who's he?" It was Methven's turn to look puzzled. "Why, he's Mayfield's future husband," he said slowly, "They're engaged."
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Part 26